


Rush

by versions91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, Ice Skating, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versions91/pseuds/versions91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possibly, Q can't skate. Possibly, James can. Possibly, James takes Q by both hands and they glide on ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rush

It’s past Christmas, past New Year’s. In celebration of a remarkably uneventful season, where they foiled a handful of domestic and international threats, Britain’s intelligence community holds a small, belated holiday party, which is to include canapés, mulled wine and an outdoor ice rink out of London.

“No.”  
“Why not?”  
 “Accidents.”  
“Everyone knows how to skate. At worst it’s a bruise.”

Only then, Moneypenny raises an eyebrow, “Q. You do know how to skate, right?”

“Meeting. I have to go.” Q takes off.

   


* * *

   


Whose idea was this, anyway? He’s the Quartermaster of the Secret Intelligence Service, and he doesn’t get to veto holiday event decisions? 

   


* * *

   


“Mallory’s.” Tanner drinks from his full glass, only to cough at the surprising kick in the red.  
“Really?” Q gestures towards the far corner of the tent, where Mallory is socialising with other big names. “He’s not skating.”  
“Sophie used to figure-skate for the country.”   
Q nods at the explanation. (He doesn’t know who Sophie is.)

Before he can drag the conversation out, he feels a pair of slim, gloved hands squeezing his shoulders from behind.

“Time to get on the ice!”

And there she goes, her loose brown curls not a bit tousled as she springs onto slippery surface. When Q turns back around, Tanner flashes a complicit smile, his left hand holding up a pair of size nine skates. 

Q doesn’t bother asking how they’d know. Excellent spies make lousy friends.

   


* * *

   


The physics of skating is simple enough. You glide with the front leg and push off with the back leg angled. The greater the angle, the greater portion of the force propels you forward. 

Simple in theory, but never applied simply. Q steers himself with small steps and great difficulty. His ankles begin to strain, having barely made any distance. Soon enough, too many people would have skated past him for his struggle to remain modestly unnoticeable.

If he were younger, he would march on. He would master whatever he applies his mind to. Now he has too much pride to march like a malnourished penguin with a limp. 

Several metres ahead of him falls a thump, followed by broken curses, yells of murder and uncontrolled laughter. Anay and Meg are huddled together on the ice, pulling at each other’s arms to get up and blaming the other for slipping. Funny how they’re a menace at the keyboard and complete fools offline. 

Enough fun for a night, he thinks. The merry accident provides the perfect distraction for his retreat onto dry land. He swings one hand behind him to grab the handrail and turns around.

   


* * *

   


“I was wrong.” Moneypenny sips on white mulled wine, “Q actually can’t skate at all. I thought he’s just bad.” 

She tips her almost-empty glass towards the rink opening, from which Q has barely inched. Bond makes a mental list of ordinary things the resident boy genius can’t do. (One, flying; two, ice-skating. Does he ski? Bond wonders.) Q's limbs scrambles for help, flailing and wobbling, but his face makes an effortful show of dignity. Bond smirks, rests his martini glass on the bar, and kisses Moneypenny’s hand to excuse himself. 

“Are you planning a rescue or a sabotage?” She narrows her eyes, her tone just a touch serious. “Deliver him safe.”

Bond winks before he heads off. When the end of his black long coat disappears round the exit, Moneypenny smiles with meaning.

“Now for a show off, ice prince.”

   


* * *

   


He hasn’t skated for pleasure since he left Austria. Somewhere boxed away and buried are memories of Schwarzsee, now too far in his mind. But his body remembers, immediately so, when he sets foot on ice. The contact sets into motion an impending sense of freedom. An open field. At his feet, any move brings a flurry of possibilities within the second.

He would take a quick solo spin, if Q hasn’t stood right in front of him, like a poor, startled animal caught in its escape.

   


* * *

   


Why, out of everyone possible, is Bond skating? More precisely, why is he stepping into the rink _now_? (Murphy’s law. Damn.) Q straightens his spine and lengthens his throat. 

“Double-oh seven. Pleasure to see you here.” 

“Q.” There he is, wearing the same damn smirk, his thin, curved lips stretching the syllable with intent. (A taunt; a tease.) His exact expression, however, is obscured in phantasmagoric shades of magenta and cyan. Can’t even see his eyes. (They’re blue, like pure ice in frozen lakes five hundred metres deep.)

“Care to join me?” Bond’s low voice interrupts his wandering thoughts. Before he can come up with a snarky line of rejection (“no thanks” wouldn’t do), his two hands are taken, lifted, and his body lunged. 

Nonononononono— 

“Just lean forward.”

   


* * *

   


Q is skating. More accurately, Bond is skating (backwards), while he leads Q gliding. It’s not that Q wants to be held with both hands like a fucking _princess_ , but he knows any attempt to resist would only threaten his precarious balance. He’d rather rely on Bond to stand than fall on his arse. (Well, he may change his mind later.) 

Besides, he can hardly think. He can only feel. He feels a _whoosh_ of speed rushing through him, brisk air sweeping both cheeks, leaving a coolness on the skin. They are moving, fast. Silhouettes of people and clusters of lights slide past, but he doesn’t look. His gaze is locked onto the space between Bond and his hands, their hands.

His hands in Bond’s: he has barely adjusted to the sensation of skating, before he fully realises this fact, a surprise occurrence for which he did not, cannot compute. He’s seized. 

“You’re too young to be stiff this way.” Bond gibes.  
“You’re too old to be skating.”

Q seldom regrets his retorts. This time he does, because Bond accelerates. Q tightens his grip out of reflex.

   


* * *

   


He could have said many other things, but he would rather not disturb Q’s moment. He wanted to shake the young man up as a joke, but as he feels, through layers of lambskin and wool, the force of Q’s fingers wrapping around his, he finds a new desire to ensure Q actually enjoy skating. 

“Look up.” 

Q’s eyes meet his, at first like an accidental brush. When neither of them break away from the other’s gaze, the moment grows into a long pause, and a pause stretches infinitely into the night. The trajectories of their blades crisscross, twisting, turning, meeting over and over again. Things unsaid begin to thaw. Stars shine in silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/post/148079422646/rush) on Tumblr. This version has been edited with small additions.
> 
> Many thanks to [BoredPsychopath_JC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredPsychopath_JC/), without whom I couldn't have come this far in writing. Credit for the drinks ideas goes to her! All mistakes remain mine.
> 
> Commission art by the amazing [BoredBeingRegular](http://boredbeingregular.tumblr.com/) [here](http://boredbeingregular.tumblr.com/post/149706748020/commission-as-part-of-the-007-games-last-month-i#notes)!
> 
> I'm new to writing fiction, and this is my first ever (!) post on AO3 (!). Comments and kudos are most appreciated! Find me on Tumblr [here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/).


End file.
